


These Roads Which We Have Travelled

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Developing Friendships, F/M, Fereldan Culture and Customs, Fereldans, Gen, Leadership, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 05:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12647019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: Neither Alistair or Anora wanted the situation as it stood.  But together, they find the best way forward for Fereldan -- and perhaps, for themselves as well.





	These Roads Which We Have Travelled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wrote/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this treat, the_wrote! It was a delightful prompt to work from.
> 
> Thank you to my beta, the always-charming ponticle. Any insight is hers; any mistakes, mine.

... _ King Alistair the first!  Long live the king! _

“Long live the king!” the crowd shout, and for a second, Alistair closes his eyes.  The crown feels heavy, his neck hurts, the sceptre feels as if it will slip from his grasp at any second.  But he rises from his kneeling position in front of the Grand Cleric, opening his eyes as he does, and turns to face them.  The faces are a blur, just open mouths and Maker, it is  _ hot _ in here, he feels desperate and prays that it does not show.  

“Turn around, approach the throne and sit,” the Grand Cleric prompts him and Alistair takes a breath, nodding slightly.  He does as he’s been bid, walking slowly toward the wide wooden throne.  And standing next to it, regarding him with bright attention, is his wife.

 

“I’m sorry,” he’d told her on the night of their marriage, three days hence, “We don’t have to…”

Anora had shrugged her shoulders and sighed.  “It holds no terrors for me,” she had said, then glanced at him.  He’d almost expected her to cry, or at least look as if she had been; but this was Loghain’s daughter, and the Mac Tir line was tough.  Anora watched him for a moment, then shook her head impatiently.  Quickly, she had stepped toward Alistair, and he’d drawn a breath and averted his eyes.  Anora had sighed again and said, “Alistair, look at me.”

_ No _ , he wanted to tell her, but he did.  For a long time, they had stared at one another, then she had smiled slightly at him and said, “  It’s no comfort to either of us, the duty we perform.”  She had bit her lip, and he wondered if she was thinking about his brother.  He almost asked her, if it was duty, if there was comfort, if maybe it grew between them, but he holds his tongue.  

Anora had stepped lightly forward then, within arms reach of him, and said softly, “There is an expectation, Alistair.  But I think I know a measure of what you are feeling.”  Her expression had hardened for a moment, then she’d raised her chin slightly.  “I have never been one to go blindly forward where others would lead.  If you do not wish to do anything more than share a bed with me tonight, then that is what we will do.  We will do this part of it on our own terms.”

Slowly, grimly, he had nodded, and began to undress.  His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely undo the ties of his shirt.  Silently, Anora waited.  When he had finished, she took his hand gently and leant forward, blowing out the candle.  Darkness had enveloped them.

 

He tries to smile at her now.  Anything is better than looking at the throne.  But the gesture must come out badly, because she looks worried; he licks his lip.  So instead, he lifts his chin and stares gravely ahead, and from the corner of his eye he sees her smile.  Better.  Good.  Alistair turns once more, the long cloak swirling slightly, then seats himself on the throne.  The Landsmeet erupts in cheers; flowers are thrown from the galley, and Alistair feels nothing but his own terror.

 

Oh, he knows what it means.  What  _ this  _ means -- a Theirin on the throne, albeit a slightly lesser known one.  And not only that, but a Theirin wedded to the daughter of one of the greatest war heroes Fereldan had ever seen.  No matter what Loghain became, their union -- his and Anora’s -- was a legend in the making.  Moreover, it was what Fereldan  _ needed _ .  Maker, what would he do?   _ I don’t know anything about being a king _ , he thinks, panic rising in his chest as the Court move forward, women he doesn’t know the name of sweeping into low curtsies, the men stiff in formal attire and platitudes.  And then he feels a touch on his shoulder and looks up.  Anora.  Anora is here, her hand warm and firm on his shoulder.  She stares straight ahead, a small smile on her face, her hair pulled back, the golden toque at her throat and the gold of her small crown glinting in the firelight.  She looks strong.  Under her touch, he feels the panic subside a little, and gives the people --  _ his  _ people,  _ their _ people -- a smile.

 

-|||-

 

Alistair sighs and rubs his forehead.  “Well?” he asks, “Out with it.”

He looks up, across the room at Anora, who glances at him from the window seat of the solar.  “Out with what?” she enquires politely.

Alistair grins and chuckles.  “I know it’s in there.  Come on, my lady, don’t be shy.”

“We are bold this evening, ser,” Anora tells him, but he can see her smirk.  She makes a final stitch into the piece of fabric she is embroidering, then sighs.  “Alright.  Show me the map.”

She sets aside her work and rises, moving with an unconscious elegance.  Alistair watches her move and swallows.  Two years it’s been -- two years of seemingly endless toil, of pushing back the last of the hoard, of rebuilding, reprovisioning; of arguments with landowners and seemingly interminable citations of reparation needed after the war.  Emissaries, dignitaries, visiting diplomats; rumours and counter-rumours.  He feels as if he’s aged a hundred years, but knows it would be worse without her.  

He smiles at her and gestures to the map upon the table.  “The bannorn of West Hill claims it theirs,” he tells her, pointing, “And yet…”

“The borders were made firm by marriage alliance in the reign of Brandel the Defeated.  The banns on either side know this,” Anora finishes.  “What is the problem?”

As he explains the issue at hand, Alistair cannot help but smile at her.  He could never have predicted this.  Alone, he could never have done it; neither, he believes, could she.  But together…

 

Alistair clears his throat suddenly, and Anora frowns slightly at him.  Her mouth opens, but before she has a chance to speak, he says softly, “May I ask you something?”

Silently, she nods.  He swallows, lifts his chin, and says, “Do you like me?”

For a moment, Anora looks stunned.  Alistair braces himself for a scoff or a mocking comment, but instead, her expression changes to one of thoughtfulness.  Finally, she nods again.  “Yes,” she tells him, “I like you.  You’re a fine king; you’re respectful to the Landsmeet, you seem to know better how to coddle those ridiculous diplomats than I ever could.  I… I think this suits you.”

Alistair nods, then looks at her.  “That… wasn’t really what I meant.”

“You know, it’s not necessary for me to like you,” Anora tells him, and Alistair feels the breath go out from his lungs.  She seems to realise her misstep immediately and says hastily, “I’m just saying that you conduct yourself in a way which commands respect.  I  _ do _ like you, but I respect you more.”

 

Alistair says nothing.  In silence, they stare at the map on the table between them, and then Anora clears her throat.  “I’m sorry if I offended you.”

 

“No.  I’m sorry.”  Alistair glances at Anora; when he sees that she is looking at him, he smiles slightly.  “I’m not offended.  I… just thought we might have… you know.  Gotten to know each other a little better by now.  I mean, it’s fine.  We’ve been busy.  I…”

“It’s not something I expected, you know,” she tells him softly and he stops talking, surprised.  “When I found out what…  _ who _ … you are, you were a threat.  And then… when… when your Warden… when she had my father killed…” Anora takes a breath and shakes her head.  Silence for a moment, then she tells him, “I never expected to feel anything but disdain for you, Alistair.  I never expected you to be as good at this as you are; as  _ we  _ are, together.  You seemed to come to the role with such reluctance; but you know war and its aftermath better than Cailan, and you have as much love for our people as any true Fereldan.  I never expected it… and I believe that I have done you a grave disservice by that.”

 

He laughs quietly and gives her a lopsided smile.  “To be honest, I couldn’t have done half of this without you.  And, I mean, I get that a lot.   _ Got _ that, I should say… people underestimating me, I mean.  And Kallian… Warden Tabris, I mean, she was never  _ my _ Warden.  She was my friend… sort of.  As much as we could be.”  Alistair lowers his eyes briefly, then forces himself to look at her again.  “I never said, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your father.”  He pauses, watching her carefully, “No matter what happened, he was still your father.”

Anora nods.  “Thank you,” she murmurs, and looks away.  Quickly, she raises a hand to her face; Alistair continues to watch her until he realises she is trying to wipe her tears, and he looks away as well, out the window to the Denerim skyline.  

 

There’s quiet for a while; deep and companionable.  Then Anora shifts, and Alistair glances at her again.  She’s smiling at him, and he returns it.  “Do you miss it?  Wardening, I mean?”

He blinks, surprised at the question, then frowns slightly.  “Actually… no.  I did.  It was easier; not as much thinking, and even being the last of two Wardens, and expected to bring down a Blight… it wasn’t as hard as this.  But… I feel like… I feel like I’ve grown into this?”  He laughs and rubs the back of his neck.  “That sounds silly.”

“Not at all,” she tells him softly, then puts her hand on his shoulder briefly.  “I feel as if we both have.”  They watch each other, almost wary.  Alistair narrows his eyes, wondering if he should ask, then throws caution to the winds: “My lady, did you want to… is this the part where we kiss each other?”

Anora laughs.  “Goodness, no.”  Her eyes go wide and she blinks.  “Oh Maker, I’m sorry…”

Alistair laughs in relief.  “Oh, no, Maker, no.  Please don’t apologise.  I just… I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

Anora rolls her eyes and chuckles.  “No fear of that.”  She smiles at him -- a true smile this time, one which lights up her face.  “Now, what shall we do about these borderlands, my lord?”

And they direct their eyes down to the map again, intent on finding a way forward for everyone concerned.


End file.
